


Everything I Say Is True

by Mireille



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant, OliverPercyImprov list, Written Pre-Order of the Phoenix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-24
Updated: 2002-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 05:16:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13780512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mireille/pseuds/Mireille
Summary: Sometimes, Halloween's about taking off masks.





	Everything I Say Is True

I hate you.

I hate that even tonight, on a holiday that's at least partly  _about_  pretending to be someone you're not, you won't pretend. Won't even try to understand why I want to be anyone but me, or you to be anyone but you. Won't stop insisting that it wouldn't involve a fundamental change in the nature of the universe to make this into anything but a mistake.

I hate that this hasn't changed you. That after what we've just done, you can sit and laugh with your friends, seemingly giving them your rapt attention, as though you still feel you belong there. And I can't do anything but try to avoid making eye contact with the people I've called "friends" since I was eleven and wonder if they can see it on my face. I hate that they'll turn on me when they do guess, or suspect, or see. And they will. There's no such thing as a secret at this school--not for long, anyway.

I hate that you're reshaping me, distorting me, without even thinking about it--just because you're unable to believe that things wouldn't be exactly as you think they should be. That I can't be who you think I am. I hate that I've even considered trying.

I hate watching you. Hate the lean grace of your hands sketching Quidditch plays in the air. Hate the ridiculous things the light from the candles makes me think about your eyes, your hair, your skin. Hate the way you bite your lip when you realize I'm staring at you. Hate that I've noticed any of this.

I hate the way you make me feel: stupid and brutish and ugly and never, ever as good as you. I hate knowing that you'd apologize if you ever realized that; hate even more that you refuse to see it yourself.

I hate remembering what's just happened, but, well, Halloween  _is_  the time to let your demons have free rein. Never mind that my only demon has pale skin and dark eyes and a mouth as sweet as sin, and letting you have your way is an invitation to madness. I'm weak; yet another thing to hate.

I hate that you make me drop my guard; that instead of letting me hide behind a mask like Muggle children do, you've turned Halloween into a reminder that I've let you see everything that lies behind the snarls and bravado. I hate that you know me better than anyone else has ever even tried to.

I hate that it didn't scare you away.

I hate that I've spent the entire feast thinking about you. About what we've done, about what I want to do after the celebrations are over, when we can slip off into an abandoned classroom or a disused corridor and forget that we should hate each other. Forget that we  _do_  hate each other. I hate that I forget, hate that when I'm kissing you, I don't  _want_  us to be Slytherin and Gryffindor, Chaser and Keeper. Hate that all I want then is to be able to lock out the world and crawl inside your skin.

I hate your insistence that none of it matters. That we don't have to hate each other just because our fathers spent years trying to kill one another--in principle, if not in particular; if my father meant to kill yours, you'd be an orphan. That we certainly don't have to despise one another because of the crests on our school robes.

I hate that your overly-optimistic conviction that things will go our way if we just  _want_  them enough will put you in an early grave. I hate knowing what that will do to me.

I hate that I'm stuck here for at least another hour, pretending to have a good time, when all I want to do is disappear. Grab my broom and head out into the night, so far away that I never have to think about this place, or you, or myself, again. I hate that you'd probably just come find me, and that I'd probably let you.

And when Quirrell bursts in shrieking about a troll in the dungeon, I hate that I immediately look your way to reassure myself that you're safe.

I hate that even while we're all hurrying to safety--or the poor illusion of safety that  _we_  get, sent back to our dungeon dormitories to await the troll (Who cares? We're only Slytherins, after all)--you slip away from the rest of the good little Gryffindors and search me out, trusting that your murmured, "You'll be careful, won't you?" will be lost in the din of the crowd before anyone else overhears.

I hate that I'm even a little comforted by it.

I hate that you knew I would be.

I hate you, Oliver Wood.

And everything I've ever told you is a lie.

**Author's Note:**

> [me on tumblr](https://mireille719.tumblr.com)


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